


smile like you mean it

by Verbyna



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Best Friends, Cats, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Exes, Las Vegas, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 20:09:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4450529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verbyna/pseuds/Verbyna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kent doesn't expect his best friend to see Jack as anything other than Kent's biggest mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	smile like you mean it

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to the hockey twitcrew for listening to me going on and on about this. and, as always, thanks to ngozi for creating these characters who get us through the night.
> 
> the next two chapters are outlined and partly written, but i'll be traveling for the next few months, so i can't set a deadline for posting. if you'd like to follow my adventures/soul-crushing cp headcanon, send a request to @sitdownlee on twitter. :)

Kent tried to leave Purrson home alone. He made it all the way to the door on the third try, but just as the door was closing, he heard a pathetic _meow_ and the scratch of the tiny blue cast on her tiny leg against the floor, and like. He’s weak for his cat at the best of times, but when she’s sick? When she breaks her leg and he got her used to him being around for a whole week? He’s the weakest.

There aren’t a lot of options for hanging out with your cat in Vegas when she can’t even walk properly, but he figures that no one’s going to kick the captain of the local hockey team out of the rink, even if it’s against the rules to bring Purrson. In the interest of plausible deniability, he neglects to check the website before he picks her up and goes down to get his car.

The valet doesn’t so much as blink before he takes off with the tip. Kent takes it as a good sign. He puts on his sunglasses and pulls into traffic, passing the Bellagio as he fiddles with the radio. It’s all news and pop songs he’s heard a thousand times, and he’s mostly focused on driving carefully so Purrson isn’t jostled, so when the Killers come on, he almost hits the breaks right there. Jesus _Christ_.

Jack used to listen to this song all the time their first year in Juniors. He hasn’t heard it in years. Kent had _smile like you mean it_ stuck in his head for a few months straight, back then, and they used to say it all the time, “like you mean it,” before a game or before they--

He looks down at the radio, exchanges a look with Purrson, and changes the station. It’s the weather forecast, which is perfect, and it says it’s gonna be sunny and too hot today, which is par for the course.

“How do you deal with all that fur?” he asks Purrson at a stop sign. Purrson meows at him. “I’ll turn up the A/C.”

It’s a shock to get out of the car when he pulls up at the rink, like there’s too much hot air pressed into a tiny space even though they’re outside. He turns his Aces cap around so it actually protects his face and picks up Purrson again to go in. He’ll just sit in the stands for the public skate, relive his playoffs victory reel with his cat, and come back for his gear if he feels like it later. Purrson can hang out on the bench. She can’t get into trouble with that cast on.

There aren’t a lot of people on the ice. Kent waves at a couple of staff members he sorta recognizes and goes to sit down by the glass, where he can smell the ice. It’s weird to be on this side of it, to be wearing shoes when he could be down there, but a good kind of weird. Almost everyone who wants to skate on a day off goes to the rink at one of the hotels, so it’s peaceful enough that he can hear his own thoughts.

They inevitably turn to Jack. It’s that stupid fucking song.

“Oh my gosh,” he hears someone say. Tourist, by the accent. He looks up, still pissed off about Jack with the added irritant of being recognized, but the blond kid that’s skating (really smoothly, actually) toward him is looking at Purrson. He stops in front of Kent, hearts in his eyes. “What’s her name? She’s the most adorable thing.”

“She’s not a thing,” Kent snaps.

The kid raises his eyebrows at Kent, all disbelieving and a little flushed from exertion. “It’s just an expression. Is she okay?”

Kent sighs and resigns himself to making conversation. At least it’s about his cat and not himself. “She broke her leg last week. I couldn’t leave her at home like this, but a week is a long time to be stuck indoors with her. Not that she’s not great,” he adds loyally. And truthfully.

The kid makes a commiserating sound, then looks around like he just remembered where they are. “Why the rink, though? It doesn’t seem--” He takes a closer look at Kent and his eyes widen a bit. “Because you haven’t skated all week. That would suck.”

Kent sighs again, but he doesn’t mind so much to be recognized anymore, if he’s honest.

“I couldn’t go three days without skating unless I had finals,” the kid says. “Or maybe if I was really sick. I got the flu last year and Coach wouldn’t let me near the rink for two weeks. I wasn’t even wheezing that hard,” he says, offended enough that Kent is surprised into laughing.

“If you can’t play, you can’t play. No way around it.”

The kid (he really needs to stop referring to him as “the kid,” it’s getting on his nerves) waves a dismissive hand. “I don’t play. All that checking and potential for head injury don’t get me going. I used to be a figure skater before I started college.”

“Competitive?” Kent asks, and gets a nod and a wistful sort of look in reply. He can’t imagine what it would be like to only get public skate after living on the ice all his life. He decides to change the topic for both their sakes. “UNLV? I kinda thought you were a tourist.”

The kid laughs, mood lifted. “I still feel like a tourist sometimes. Big change from Georgia to, you know, _Las Vegas_.”

“Now you can wear sequins off the ice, there’s an upshot,” Kent chirps on autopilot, then has two seconds to panic about potentially offending a fan _at the Aces arena_ before the kid snorts at him.

“Only if Beyonce’s in town, Kent Parson. And even then, I make them look _tasteful_.”

Kent smirks at him silently.

“Come off it. Here I was worrying about your cat, about to ask for an autograph, and now I have to school you.”

Kent hums the chorus to Single Ladies, and Purrson predictably starts meowing in time. The kid beams at her like she’s singing the anthem before a game, then looks at Kent and starts to laugh. Quietly, though, since the rink is too empty for loud noises.

“How much Beyonce do you play at your house, exactly?” he asks Kent. He actually addresses the question to Purrson, who meows again.

Kent shrugs. He can listen to Beyonce as much as he wants at his fucking amazing condo. So he likes to dance, sue him. He mostly listens for the meowing at this point. It’s seriously adorable. His fans all agree.

“Do you still want that autograph?” he asks, trying to sound put-upon. It doesn’t come out that way, what with the lack of human contact recently. “Who should I make it out to?”

“Eric. But no, I think you well and truly fell off the pedestal. You should make an instagram just for Purrson instead. Or a Vine.”

Kent is… actually into that, which must show on his face, because Eric is clearly trying not to laugh at him. “I’ll get going, leave you two to enjoy your day out. I’m here every weekend for public skate if you want to bring her back,” he says, skating backwards away from the boards. “I’m a _great_ catsitter.”

“You sure you don’t want that autograph?” Kent asks again, just making sure.

“I’m a Blackhawks fan,” Eric calls over his shoulder, then jumps when two little kids boo him. “Though I support the home team! Go Aces!”

“See you around,” Kent calls back, laughing at the flush on Eric’s face. The little kids are skating towards him looking starstruck, though, so he drops the conversation and puts on a nicer smile. “Hi there,” he says when they’re close enough. “How are you guys doing today?”

 

*

 

He goes back to the rink the next day, sans Purrson but with his skates this time. He talked to management and got a couple of hours by himself right after public skate. He needs to pick up his training again. He also needs to get that fucking song out of his head, by which he means get Jack off his mind. Exhaustion usually helps, except when it doesn’t.

He idly scans the people returning their rented equipment as he laces up and spots Eric right away. He’s not with the bulk of the crowd; he must’ve brought his own skates.

Eric’s looking around, though it takes him longer to spot Kent. When he does, he looks away twice before Kent sighs and waves at him. Eric smiles, surprised, and waves back.

By the time Kent’s done lacing up, Eric is hovering a few feet away.

“Put those back on if you want,” Kent says, skipping the formalities. “I got two hours.”

“Really?” Eric asks, blinking at him. He rallies fast. “But you didn’t bring Purrson. What if I only like you for your cat?”

“It wouldn’t be the worst reason,” Kent mutters, pretending to check his gear again.

So maybe he spent the night wondering if he should call Jack. And he remembered all the reasons why he should stop thinking about that asshole, but none of them worked, and he was stuck there with Purrson draped around his neck like a twitchy scarf, feeling sorry for himself. Whatever.

“Do you want to skate or not?”

Eric is giving him a strange, knowing look, but at least it’s not pity. “I always want to skate. Let me just lace up and I’ll meet you out there.”

Kent nods and steps onto the ice. It’s like coming home, always; he inhales deeply, then shoots off to get himself into the right mindset. Or out of the wrong mindset. He can tell that he’s a little out of shape, but it’s not as bad as he’d expected.

Eric joins him after a minute. They don’t talk - don’t even look at each other much, past those first assessing glances - and it’s good, god, it’s so good to just… be. He lets the music wash over him, greatest hits from the past ten years and a couple of current songs that Eric does tricks to, smiling at Kent whenever he catches his eye.

Kent zones out thinking about what Eric said yesterday. About quitting skating. He can’t imagine it. What else is there? Other than, like, college and doing this on the weekends. For a while there, after he got drafted but before he knew for sure he wouldn’t be sent down until they thought he was ready for the big league, he had dreams every night about guys checking him until his head rang. The worst thing had already happened to Jack, so Kent got stuck in his own worst fears: career-ending injuries, being denied the chance to play, a call saying that Jack had done something awful on purpose this time. Or worse, no one telling him, because Jack cut off ties when he went into rehab.

He was so fucking relieved, and so fucking _angry_ , when he heard that Jack was playing at Samwell instead of trying out for the league.

“Are you okay?” Eric asks.

Kent snaps out of it. “I’m fine.”

“You’re glaring at your team logo,” Eric says carefully, and yeah, that’s what Kent’s doing. Fuck.

“I’m fine,” he repeats in a more normal tone of voice. “Do you want to get lunch or something when we leave? I’ll buy.”

“Um, not that I’m not flattered--”

Kent plays back what he just said. “No, uh, not like that. Just lunch?” He tries to come up with a reason other than _I don’t want to be alone right now_. “My catsitter still has three hours on the clock,” he hears himself saying with a vague kind of horror.

Eric smiles like that’s not the lamest thing an NHL player has ever said. “Alright, but I’m buying my own food. Can I pick the place?”

“Whatever. I just want some carbs.”

“That I can do,” Eric says. He pauses for a moment, then shouts, “Race you!”

He actually wins, which is humiliating on so many levels, but the Mexican place he directs Kent to afterwards smells pretty great, so Kent’s not really bothered. It’s right off campus, which Kent knows because he went to a lot of frat parties when he first moved to Vegas.

“I hate not showering after I skate,” Eric says when they’ve sat down and looked over their menus. He grimaces and shifts in the seat. “It’s disrespectful to the chef.”

“I don’t think that guy really cares,” Kent says, because he can see the line cook from here, and nothing short of an explosion would shift that level of I-don’t-give-a-shit.

“But I care,” Eric says, and launches into a rant about the relationship between patrons and kitchen professionals that he only briefly pauses to order his food.

Kent listens, bemused. He guessed Eric was a talker, that was half the reason he decided to hang out with him after practice, but the topic is a little left of field. Eric notices his confusion and grinds to a halt, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Hah. Um, I’m majoring in American Studies with a focus on food culture.”

“I can tell,” Kent says, then shakes his head. “I can’t remember the last time I ate anything without looking at my diet plan.”

“Playing hooky with me, captain?” Eric asks, still a little flushed with embarrassment. It occurs to Kent that Eric is cute, but luckily not his type at all. His type, as far as he can tell, is tall, dark, and avoidant.

If Eric notices his sudden shift in mood, he neither comments, nor asks him if he’s okay again. Kent is a little grateful for that. He answers all the NHL questions Eric asks, including the one about Toews’ ass (hockey is a blessing for the glutes, but he doesn’t commit further), and when they part ways half an hour later, a girl in a UNLV shirt takes a picture of them from across the street.

He finds it online that night, with the caption, “Kent Parson and a friend out and about.” He looks down at his phone, which now holds Eric’s number, and thinks, _maybe_. 

“What do you say, Purrson? Should we make a friend?”

Purrson meows at him gravely. Kent rubs her behind the ears and keeps scrolling through the notifications on his iPad. There’s nothing from Jack, but what else is new?

 

*

 

It’s not that Kent is still stuck on Jack. That’s not what this is. It’s just unfinished business, because there are so many things they need to say that neither of them is willing to say. They’re not built for this kind of thing. Jack avoided Kent for three years and Kent makes Jack fall to the floor shaking every time he sees him, but it’s better than not seeing each other at all.

Kent knew. He knew, and Jack made him swear not to tell.

No one talks about the part where you’d do anything for someone, and they ask you to let them fuck themselves up. It wouldn’t exactly fit on a card.

He wants Jack to be okay, but he wants to be fine, too. He wants to have fun that’s not about winning. He wants his captain’s voice to be his own, not Jack’s, but he’ll take a cat and a condo and the Cup and Jack, almost-honest with a mouthful of wrong words, every few months.

 

*

 

Eric gets his roommate a date and asks Kent over for pie. It’s possibly the most ridiculous thing Kent’s done, but he’s curious about Eric in his own space. It makes him think about all sorts of things he wouldn’t consider otherwise.

“Perfect,” Eric decides, and slides the second pie onto a cooling rack.

“You have hidden depths, Bittle,” Kent says, trying not to drool too obviously. He’s had nothing but salad and lean meat for weeks, except for that lunch with Eric.

“They’re not that hidden.”

Kent looks up at him. “Do you want to get into it, or do you want to eat pie?”

Eric shakes his head like a nervous tic and sits down at the bar that separates the kitchenette and the common room. “Nothing to talk about. We can just eat and be quiet.”

“Yeah, let’s,” Kent says. He takes the fork that Eric’s holding out and digs in, looking at the pictures hanging from the cupboard above the bar. There’s one of Eric and his family, going on the coloring and smiles. He’s wearing an outfit that can only be described as _Sunday Best._ It’s… something.

“Coach gave me that picture when I moved out there,” Eric offers.

It takes Kent a minute. “Wait, you call your dad Coach?”

Eric shrugs, and Kent tries not to think about Jack accidentally calling his dad Bad Bob in a student paper interview. He considers asking Eric about his family, but they’re both in Vegas and Kent’s never seen Eric in anything approaching Sunday Best, so he figures he should leave it alone. He’s not that interested, anyway. It’s not like he has a great track record with friends’ families.

“Is there anything about me that screams _good influence_?” he asks Eric in between bites.

Eric snorts and finishes swallowing before he says, “Nothing except your work ethic, Cap.” His voice sounds more Southern when he’s eating.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Deal. Why do you ask?”

Kent pushes his empty plate away, dropping the fork in it with a clang. “People keep acting like that’s what they expected from me.”

“Hey. Hey,” Eric says, laying his hand on Kent’s arm and squeezing once. Eric turns his head to meet his eyes and dredges up a cocky smile. Eric’s answering smile is a little sad. “You’re doing great. You know that, right? Not just the hockey.”

“Yeah, yeah. Obviously.”

Eric takes his hand away and gets up to clear the dishes. Kent lets his smile freeze in place even if Eric can’t see it. He probably can’t get another one to happen for now.

“Was one of those people, you know--”

Eric is hesitant, which is the only thing that keeps Kent from leaving and deleting Eric’s number. His smile falls. He just wants one fucking thing that has nothing to do with Jack. It shouldn’t be too much to ask. _One_ fucking _thing._

“I don’t want to talk about Zimmermann. It’s all online if you’re curious, Bittle.”

“I haven’t read anything about it since it happened, Parson. I’m not that kind of boy.”

Eric sounds offended, but Kent bursts into laughter and turns to look at him. “What kind of boy are you, then?” He gleefully watches Eric flushing, but frowns when Eric goes into genuinely distressed territory. “Hey, what? What did I say?”

“Nothing! Nothing. It’s just. If we’re gonna be friends, there’s something you should probably know. I’ll understand if you can’t see me anymore, it’s kind of a big deal and you’re a hockey player and--”

Kent leans forward and puts his hand on Eric’s shoulder to stop the babbling. “Just spit it out.”

Eric takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, then goes, “I’m gay.”

He’s watching Kent like he expects some sort of asshole comment, braced, shoulders high. Kent refuses to live down to it, even if Eric maybe has a point with the hockey player thing. Not most hockey players, but ones who have something to hide? It doesn’t seem wise to flirt with that sort of media attention. Still: he’s done living down to expectations.

He shakes Eric a little by the shoulder and smiles. “Good for you, bro. Or, I guess, thanks for telling me? Whatever. It’s not an issue.” Eric visibly deflates and gives him a relieved smile, and Kent takes his hand away and shoves it in his pocket. “I take issue with the lack of alcohol right now, though.”

Eric’s face goes from shocked, to thinking that Kent’s joking, to realizing he totally isn’t. “I’m under twenty-one! And it’s lunchtime!”

“We should celebrate this important bonding moment by getting day-drunk on champagne and watching videos of amateurs dancing to Beyonce,” Kent counters. “I have a bottle in my car.”

Eric sighs like it’s a hardship to hang out with Kent. “I’d say that’s a cliche, but it actually sounds good. I’ll google while you get the bottle.”

Down in the parking lot, Kent sits down in his open trunk, holding a bottle of Bollinger, and just breathes for a minute. That would’ve been a perfect time to finally tell someone that he used to hook up with a guy. But how can he ever say that without getting into the reasons why he stopped? Or the way it started? Or anything in between, how it’s not really over because they still can’t stay away from each other even now that they stopped touching and live on opposite sides of the country?

He goes upstairs, vaguely guilty and pissed off at himself, and lets Eric distract him. The roommate finds them sprawled on the floor in front of Eric’s computer, belting XO into the empty bottle. He walks right back out again.

 

*

 

Training camp is Kent’s favorite part of the pre-season. It’s good to know he can still take whatever they throw at him after some time off. It’s even better to know that the guys still listen to him on the ice, even if they chirp him everywhere else like that’s their actual sport.

His captain voice sounds more like his own this year. He’s not sure how to feel about that.

On the third day, Bitty texts to complain about his roommate flooding their apartment. Kent doesn’t see it until late afternoon, but he calls him back as soon as he does.

“Hi,” Eric says, sort of harried. “I can’t really talk right now, honey, I’m trying to figure out where to store my things--”

“ _Honey_ ,” Kent interrupts, “how do you feel about catsitting?”

There’s a pause. Kent slugs some Gatorade and wipes the back of his neck with a towel, trying not to overthink it. He’d already thought about asking Eric to look after Purrson while Kent’s away; this is probably a sign. And it’s the bro thing to do.

“You’d do that for me?” Eric asks eventually.

“I’d do that for _Purrson._ ”

Eric snorts, just like Kent hoped he would. “I can do that. Where is she? And where do you live?”

Kent gives him the address for Veer Towers, waiting out Eric’s flustered response. As if Kent wouldn’t live somewhere nice - he’s a pro athlete in a major league, of course he’s got a view. “Purrson is at a pet hotel off Polaris Ave. I’ll text you the address and let them know you’re picking her up. She has a vet appointment tomorrow at 5, do you mind?”

“I’ll pick her up today, and I can take her to the vet, but Kent, really, thank you so much--”

“Don’t mention it.”

“But--”

“If you need help dealing with your landlord, let me know. I have to get back to training. Talk to you later, yeah?”

He emails Eric all the addresses, calls the front desk at home to give Eric access, and talks to the pet resort and to the vet. By the time he’s done, the day’s catching up with him, so he just goes to take a nap instead.

He wakes up to a picture of Eric and Purrson in his living room. There’s nothing to worry about: all the incriminating stuff about him and Jack is in a box under his bed at his mom’s house in Jersey. Eric can deal with pictures of Kent and (female) models if he followed Kent on Instagram before they even met.

 

*

 

_How are you ?_

It’s the last day of training camp. Kent is sore all over, exhausted down to the bone, so he genuinely doesn’t have the energy to do his usual Jack-contacted-me-what-do-I-do mental gymnastics.

 _I’m good,_ he types slowly. _Last day of training camp, u know how it is. U?_

He leaves his phone in his room when he goes to have dinner with the guys. He doesn’t even think about it much - what Jack is saying, whether he’s saying anything or if he’s over whatever it was, nostalgia or sadism, that made him get in touch.

It’s not really a surprise to read, _Leaving my parents’ house early. Haus is empty. You could fly up for a couple of days if you want ?_ The timestamp says it was sent right after Kent replied.

 _Two more days on the road won’t kill me._ They might, but if Jack’s a sadist, Kent has always been the masochist there. He tries to avoid going to visit Jack if he’s feeling too good, but he can’t come up with a reason to stay away right now, other than the fact that it’s always a bad idea. _See u tomorrow._

Eric seems happy to hang out with Purrson a little longer, so that’s something, at least.

 

*

 

If any of the guys wonder why Kent doesn’t fly back with them, they don’t bring it up. He takes the 10am flight to Boston, an hour after they take off, and buys himself a couple of ties as he waits in Departures. He sticks to water on the plane, watching the clouds pass by underneath; usually he’d be listening to music, but everything would remind him of Jack. He’ll get enough of that after he lands.

He washes his face in the brightly lit airport bathroom without meeting his own eyes. His lips are numb.

When he sees Jack, he almost turns back to get a ticket to Vegas. He slows down to gauge Jack’s mood instead, taking in his frown and hunched shoulders - headache and anxiety, wonderful. Fucking great. At least Kent’s not the only one.

He can’t read Jack’s face when he sees Kent. It feels like someone just walked over his grave, not knowing what Jack’s thinking about him.

“Are you a chauffeur now?”

Jack looks away, sketches a smile that doesn’t hold. His eyes are warmer; Kent wonders if it’s on purpose. “Do you need help with your bags?”

“Full service, awesome,” Kent says, and transfers the strap of his duffle to Jack’s shoulder. Jack lists to the side for a second before smirking at Kent. “Shut up,” Kent says, because it’s nowhere near as heavy as Jack’s bags used to be.

They’re so close that Kent can smell him, just enough to take a deep breath and hate himself for it. He takes a step back and leads the way out of the airport so he doesn’t have to look at Jack just yet. Jack doesn’t try to make conversation, which is good. Kent has no idea what to say to him. He figures he’s mostly here to listen, or failing that, to play video games and pretend they’re not jerking off to each other in adjoining rooms for a couple of nights, just like old times.

What he doesn’t expect is for Eric to call as soon as they pull out of the parking lot in Jack’s truck. Kent stares at Eric’s picture on the screen for a long moment, caught between then and now, before he puts the phone to his ear and turns his face to the window for privacy. Who knows what his face does when he talks to Eric.

“Is Purrson okay?”

Eric sighs. “Hello to you too, Kent. Everything’s fine, Purrson’s fine, your condo hasn’t burned down. How was your flight?”

“It was fine,” Kent says. He can’t remember the last time someone who isn’t his mom thought to ask him that. “The flight attendant was cute.”

Jack and Eric snort at the same time. “Was she?” Eric asks absently. It sounds like he’s in the kitchen, no surprise there.

“Probably. Safe bet. What are you making?”

“Hmm? Oh, you heard that? Just some peach pie. You had everything I needed. I know you cleared me, but it feels like they might not let me back in if I go get groceries. This place is ridiculous.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Kent says, and realizes he’s smiling. He chances a look at Jack, who’s gone unreadable again.

“Where are you?”

“In the car, we’re still an hour out.”

“Oh,” Eric says. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize - Jack’s there? What are you doing talking to me, then? Go on, have fun, we’ll talk later,” Eric says in a rush, then ends the call, leaving Kent holding the phone to his ear like an idiot.

He turns to Jack again. “My catsitter.”

“Your catsitter knows that much about your schedule?” Jack asks dubiously, changing lanes. “No one knows that much about your schedule. I bet you didn’t tell the team where your flight was headed,” and he’s right, and Kent clenches his fists, because Jack will always be right about him.

“He’s a friend,” he tells Jack, a little more forcefully than the statement really warrants. “I still have those, you know.”

Jack takes a deep breath. It looks like something he learned in therapy, too controlled to fit with the way Kent remembers him. Jack used to be contained, not controlled. It makes Kent want to rattle him just to recognize him.

“What’s his name?” Jack asks quietly.

“Eric. Put some music on.”

It’s The Killers, but at least it’s not that song. It still makes Kent regret putting the radio on.


End file.
